


Solo

by everybodylies



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Joan-Centric, Joan/Moriarty friendship, Post Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/everybodylies/pseuds/everybodylies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes disappears, and Joan deals with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Interim

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: I gave Ms. Hudson the random first name of Jane because I feel like Joan wouldn't call her Ms. Hudson??
> 
> also, lyrics are from Miss Missing You by Fall Out Boy
> 
> 2nd half will be posted by the end of the month.
> 
> p.s. concrit is welcome!

_now you’re gone_  
 _but i’ll be okay_  
 _your hot whiskey eyes_  
 _have fanned the flames_  
 _maybe i’ll burn a little brighter tonight_  
 _let the fire breathe me back to life_

* * *

She's found the perfect apartment, she's packed everything up, and she's rented the U-Haul. She's got it all worked out. Then Sherlock Holmes disappears.

And is she really surprised? This is exactly the kind of childish tantrum he _would_ pull. He'd been so melodramatic, treating her moving out as if it were the end of their partnership and the world. So he'd crafted that eloquent speech, that offer of change because, hey, it worked the first time didn't it? But he didn't understand that things were different now. And when she'd still said no, he'd gone and done this, instead of just maturely coming to terms with her decision.

She knows she can't play his game. She has to move out or she never will, and her life will just continue to be endless late nights and early mornings with the same few people over and over again, and, yes, maybe she'd enjoy it, but she'd never stop wondering if there wasn't anything _more_.

He's bluffing her. She has to move out. She _has_ to.

But she worries. So she calls him, dozens of times, leaving messages along the lines of, "You're already in trouble, but call me back soon, and maybe you'll be in less." She cancels the U-Haul; she unpacks two boxes of clothes and stretches her sheets back over her mattress. By day, she calls up Sherlock's acquaintances, asks if they've seen him. By night, she hits up the common hotspots for addicts, shining her flashlight on sleeping faces, holding her breath, feeling relieved, yet disappointed, when she comes up empty-handed.

Once, during these days of searching, a client shows up at her door. It's a young girl named Helen with a gap tooth and sad eyes, asking for help finding her brother. Joan listens to her story, then tells her to call the police. Which is stupid, she knows, deep down, because the type of people who come to them cannot be helped by the police. Joan tells Helen and tells herself that she's sending Helen away because she's too busy looking for her partner, but the painful, embarrassing truth, the truth that burns a hole through her brain while she's trying to sleep that night, is that she's never done this by herself.

So she searches. She searches and searches and searches, and she keeps an eye out for Helen's brother as well, but she never actually goes out searching for _him_ because you can't fail what you don't try. She spends twelve days like this, living out of cardboard boxes in a very, very quiet brownstone. She has no idea how much longer she'll spend doing this, and for all she knows, it could be forever, but, see, the thing about New York is that it's never as quiet as the brownstone is at breakfast time now. Murders need solving.

Bell calls her with a case, and, while she may be able to say no to a client, she can't find it in herself to say no to Marcus. It's a grisly murder, head caved in with a dirty gardening trowel. But it's nothing she hasn't seen before, and she forces herself to stand up straighter, and she just imagines that Sherlock is home sick today, laying in bed miserably, with that familiar pout on his face, and reading a monograph.

She solves the case. Sure, maybe there were a few hiccups along the way, but when isn't there? Bell and Gregson tell her they never doubted her, even though they definitely did. It doesn't matter now. Fired up, she calls Helen again, whose brother is still missing. She finds the brother, thankfully alive, tied up in the basement of a mob boss' house. Another rousing success. Yet, she still can't find Sherlock. It's become increasingly clear that Sherlock does not want to be found. He hasn't used his cellphone or credit cards since he disappeared. He hasn't contacted her at all.

And thus, she stops looking. It's never easy to find someone who does not want to be found. It's especially not easy when that someone is Sherlock Holmes, a genius who specializes in such things.

She feels oddly guilty when she packs up Clyde and her things again, but she forces the feeling away. She deserves this. She calls the U-Haul and tapes a sign to the door that directs all those looking for consulting detective services to her new address. Then, she moves out.

* * *

Her new place is a one-bedroom, one-bath, 500 square footer that's situated about two blocks away from the brownstone. There's a granite countertop in the kitchen, a purple plush carpet in the bedroom, and a nice view of the bakery across the street in the living room.

The apartment is too empty, too quiet, and cold. But it's _hers_. And as her shelves slowly fill with more and more of her things, it begins to feel like home.

* * *

She solves another case.

* * *

That Tuesday, Ms. Hudson rings her doorbell, a bucket of cleaning supplies in her hand. Joan lets her in, immediately apologizing, "Sorry, Jane, I forgot to tell you about my move—"

"Oh, no worries," Ms. Hudson says warmly in that way that makes Joan feel calm and fuzzy inside.

"Here, have a seat. Would you like some water? Tea? Coffee?"

"Water would be lovely, thanks."

Ms. Hudson takes a seat at one of the barstools in her kitchen, and Joan pours her a glass of water. As she hands the glass to Ms. Hudson, another realization hits her.

"Oh, your paycheck! I never asked. Are you still getting paid? I'm sorry, I really dropped the ball on this one."

Ms. Hudson chuckles at her distress. "It's really alright, Joan. Sherlock's account is still paying me. And even if it weren't, it wouldn't be the end of the world because I've found myself a new _vieux protecteur_ , if you know what I mean."

"Well, I'm not cultured enough to speak French, but I think I do," Joan says, laughing. "Is he nice?"

"He is. But they all start out that way, you know?" Ms. Hudson stops and frowns. "Oh, did I really say that? I guess I'm becoming a cynic."

Joan laughs again. "Well, if it doesn't work out, you can always come here, you know. Or the brownstone. But it's a bit lonely there these days."

"It is," Ms. Hudson agrees. "There's also not much for me to do. Just a little dusting here and there and feeding the bees."

" _You've_ been feeding the bees, too?" Joan asks, mildly surprised.

"Oh, sweetie, you didn't notice you were only filling up the sugar water containers halfway?"

Joan shrugs. "I just figured they were eating less, you know… because Sherlock was gone."

"Who knew? Joan Watson is a romantic!" Ms. Hudson says with a grin. "But nature is rarely so sentimental. The bees are still healthy." She leans forward. "Speaking of. Since there's not much to do in the brownstone, do you want me to start housekeeping over here, too? I feel like I'm not earning my keep."

Joan hadn't grown up as one of those families who had a maid over every week. Even in the brownstone, it had made her feel odd that someone else was vacuuming their floors, changing their sheets. "That's okay, I think. You don't need to. Most of the messes you were cleaning up in the brownstone were Sherlock's anyway. Him and his experiments."

Ms. Hudson sighs, and Joan feels a quick pang of sadness in her gut before she pushes it away. She didn't think it was possible to miss that squelching sound her shoes made sometimes when Sherlock would spill that sticky brown goo all over the floor or that faint smell of magnesium that never quite left the brownstone after that explosion he'd set off, but miss them she does.

"That's not to say you can't come over for other things," Joan continues. "A cup of tea, for example."

"That sounds good," Ms. Hudson replies with a smile.

* * *

She solves a case, but fails to solve another one. She keeps the case file on her nightstand and reads it over every night before bed.

* * *

She has coffee with Alfredo in the city, to better explain to him everything that's happened. They sit beside a small table on the outside of the cafe, a large umbrella protecting them from the heavy summer sun.

"And he hasn't contacted you at all?"

She shakes her head.

" _Fuck_ , man," Alfredo says, which Joan feels accurately sums up the situation.

Joan stifles a yawn and gulps down more of her coffee. "I assume he hasn't contacted you either?" she asks.

"Nope." Alfredo takes off his cap and scratches his head. "Well, I want to let you know, you don't have to worry about Randy. I'll take over as his sponsor for now."

"Oh God, _Randy_ ," she moans, putting her face in her hands. "I'm sorry. I totally forgot about that." Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realizes she's been doing a lot of apologizing on Sherlock's behalf, and she doesn't appreciate it. He'd left so many loose ends behind, and she's the one dealing with all of it. "Listen, if you don't want to do that, I can definitely take over—"

"Nah, it's alright. I like having a sponsee, you know? I mean, Randy can't come jack cars with me, but he also doesn't break into my house in the middle of the night."

"Jesus, he did that?"

Alfredo chuckles, almost fondly. "He did. Practically gave me a heart attack." He stops and looks straight at Joan. "But enough about Sherlock. Screw him. How are _you_?"

"I'm… fine."

"Don't sound fine to me. You sound really tired, actually."

Joan sighs. Well, if there's anyone she can admit her failures to, it's Alfredo. "There was this case I couldn't solve," she says, staring down at the ground. "Detective Bell officially classified it as a cold case a week ago."

"Sorry to hear that," says Alfredo, quiet and understanding.

" _He_ would have solved it," Joan mutters bitterly.

"You don't know that."

"But I do. I just know, you know? He'd take one look at those crime scene photos, cite some obscure fact about rose gardening, and have the murderer in cuffs by tomorrow."

"Hey, hey, Joan. Look at me." She sullenly raises her head to meet Alfredo's eyes. "Okay, maybe you're right. Maybe he would solve your case. But remember that cold case of his you drudged up from the bottom of his trunk? The one with the dinosaurs? He definitely would not have solved that case without you. There are some cases you can't solve alone, and same goes for him."

"I guess." Alfredo's words make sense, but they're just not hitting home. She rubs at her red eyes with her fists.

"Everyone has duds once in a while, Joan. Sherlock has a whole trunk full of them, you know that. Shit, the NYPD has a room full of them. There are some cars that I can't jack, but I don't let it get to me. I move on."

* * *

She solves another case.

* * *

The moment her mother's eyes land on the interior of her apartment, Joan can see her mother start judging. Joan gives her mother a short tour, and her mother is too busy looking around and comparing everything to her standards to make eye contact with Joan.

The tour ends in the bedroom, and her mother, stroking one of the curtains, says finally, "I like it."

"I'm glad I have your approval," says Joan dryly.

Chuckling, her mother walks over and rubs Joan warmly on the back. "Now, I know you don't care what I think, but I do like it… Well, except for that turtle. You're not some teenage boy, Joan—"

"Mom," Joan sighs.

Her mother holds her hands up in surrender. "Okay, keep the turtle." She goes to sit on the bed and pats the spot next to her. Joan pauses, then sits down.

"So," her mother says, "how's work?"

"It's… I'm getting the hang of it. I've solved a few cases."

"And you said Sherlock is just gone?"

"Packed up and left, yeah," Joan says, and she really, really hopes she's not going to get a lecture about how she should have known better or something like that. She's not expecting what then comes out of her mother's mouth.

"Do people know that he's gone? That he's not working with you anymore?"

Joan shrugs. "I'm not advertising the fact. But word is getting around."

"Good."

" _Good_? I thought you liked Sherlock," Joan accuses, her forehead creasing in confusion.

"I do," her mother says noncommittally, "but I like you more. And his absence gives you a valuable opportunity. The opportunity to prove yourself."

"I've already proved myself!"

"Yes, well, maybe you have. But only to Sherlock and whichever police officers you work with. Not to the world."

"What do you mean?" Joan's not sure if she should be feeling offended or not.

"Joan, don't you see? Sherlock had such a head start on you. By the time you started working with him, he was already fairly well known for his genius. So maybe it was you who solved the case. But when the story gets to the papers, who are people going to assume did all the work: the famous Sherlock Holmes, or the small Asian lady who follows him around? People look at you and probably just think you're his concubine or something."

"Mom!"

"What? It's true. Take it from someone who's been there. But now that he's disappeared, there's no doubting it. It's all you, and you get all the credit. So don't waste this time."

Joan looks at the ground. This whole time, she's been thinking she just has to survive, make it through, do her best to solve each case until Sherlock gets tired of this bullshit and returns, and now her mother's saying she should be aspiring to more. According to her mother, she should be thriving, _capitalizing_. Maybe she's right. But Joan's just going to do the only thing she can do, which is take it step by step. Solve the case in front of her and then the next one. Maybe it will lead somewhere.

"You're just saying that because you want a famous daughter."

Her mother laughs, warm and airy. "I just want for you to get the credit you deserve… and also maybe for me to be interviewed on live television." She waves her hands around, and her eyes go unfocused. "It'll say on the screen, 'Mary Watson, mother of famed consulting detective Joan Watson,' and they'll ask me about what you were like when you were a little baby—"

" _Mom_!"

* * *

She solves another case. She solves it. _She_ solves it, and no one else.

"Write that down, too, please. Put it in the file that it was just me," she says forcefully to Marcus, who shrugs.

"As you wish," he says, smiling.

* * *

She still spends time at the brownstone on occasion. Sometimes she needs access to Sherlock's extensive library, sometimes she needs one of his tools, and sometimes she just finds herself craving the cool, musty air and the faint buzzing of the bees. This time, she needs the space.

She's working a case, a tough one involving trained pigs and bludgeoned accountants. She pins up all the photos she has above the fireplace and stands there staring, making connections. The pin-board overflowing with papers, herself standing in front of the fireplace, theorizing intently: it's a familiar scene, but she deliberately doesn't think about it. She just thinks about the case.

The phone rings. She figures it's probably a client who hadn't got wind of the phone number change, but when she picks up, she immediately realizes how wrong she is.

"Joan Watson, Consulting Detective."

"Joan!" Moriarty drawls fondly.

Rubbing her forehead, Joan sighs. "Moriarty."

"It's good to hear your voice, Joan," Moriarty continues enthusiastically. But it's a little too enthusiastic, and Joan knows it's false. Moriarty still thinks she can fool Joan, but, the truth is, she can read Moriarty like an open book. Moriarty always tries too hard with Joan, and she knows that she is not the one Moriarty wants to talk to right now.

"How are you—"

"I know you didn't call just to make small talk," Joan cuts her off. "What do you want?"

"Very well," Moriarty says, all pretense dropped, yet still faintly amused. "I'd like to speak with Sherlock."

"He's not available at the moment."

"Perhaps it's better I ask you, then." She pauses. "I'd like to know why Sherlock hasn't been responding to my letters," Moriarty says. Her voice is haughty with a touch of petulance.

He'd still been writing her? Joan bites her tongue in annoyance. She can't recall them ever coming to an agreement that he'd stop, but she had made her opinions clear. Besides, she'd figured that it was obvious, right? To not communicate with your psychopathic, manipulative, mass murderer ex-lover? Not obvious enough, it seems.

The phone cradled between her ear and her shoulder, she walks over to the kitchen table, where she'd been storing Sherlock's mail. She pushes the pile around, and, yes, there they are. Several small, faintly colored envelopes are poking up, curly writing embossing their outsides. She feels a bit embarrassed that she didn't notice, but then again, she had been pointedly not looking closely at his mail. After all, she respects _his_ privacy; though, in light of recent events, she's not sure he deserves to have any.

She could lie to Moriarty, say Sherlock just isn't interested in her anymore. That'd end their relationship for good, and when (if?) Sherlock returned, this would no longer be an issue. But her mother's words run through her mind, and she doesn't even know why she cares what Moriarty thinks, but she does. She wants her to know that it's Joan in charge now. That anything Moriarty reads in the newspaper that mentions consulting detectives is Joan's work.

"When I said earlier that Sherlock wasn't available, what I really meant is that he's not living here anymore. A couple weeks ago, he packed up and disappeared. He didn't tell anyone where he went, and I haven't seen him since."

"Ah," Moriarty says, entirely unconcerned. "And why did he leave?"

"I told him I wanted to move out, and he didn't take it well. I don't think that was the only reason, but it seemed to be the main one."

"Did you look for him?"

"I searched New York for two weeks. I know he's not in the city, but that doesn't narrow it down much."

"I could help, you know. I've got men in every city in the world. I could have him gift-wrapped and delivered to your doorstep by the end of the week."

"Tempting. But no thanks. I'm done chasing after him. If he wants things to go back to the way they were, he has to come back on his own."

"Hm," Moriarty murmurs, long and drawn out. She's intrigued. Joan wonders if Moriarty will ever start viewing Joan as a person, and not just a mildly interesting pile of meat that needs to be figured out.

"So is that all?" Joan says curtly, glancing at her abandoned case files.

"Er, yes, that seems to be all I wanted to discuss."

Joan can read Moriarty, easy as breathing. But it's times like this that she wishes she couldn't. Even over this low quality phone call, Joan can hear the tinge of loneliness and boredom that pervades Moriarty's voice. She thinks of Moriarty, cooped up in that prison cell, which is far larger than she deserves, but is still prison, and is still not freedom, no matter how many amenities she is given. She thinks of Sherlock, who can only tolerate twenty-four hours without a case before he starts tearing up the furniture.

Moriarty waits in expectant silence.

Finally, Joan sighs and asks, "So, how is Kayden?"

The energy enters Moriarty's voice once again. "She's doing good, Joan. Her post-traumatic stress is almost resolved. No more nightmares…"

 _Wish I could say the same_ , Joan thinks, as she listens.


	2. Normal

She solves another case. It's one of those high-octane cases, one of those cases that require a lot of all-nighters, specifically three all-nighters in a row, and she sleeps for two straight days afterwards.

* * *

She gets a letter from Moriarty. At her apartment, not the brownstone. She can't exactly recall when she gave Moriarty her new address, and in what context. Perhaps she hadn't.

It reads:

  _Joan, I enjoyed our talk the other day. I am inviting you to dinner at my place. You can stop by any day, as I won't be going anywhere. And do not worry, this is not your typical prison food. The man who cooks my meals is a retired head chef from a three-star Michelin restaurant._

 Joan rolls her eyes and tosses the letter in the recycling.

* * *

She solves a case and fails to solve another one. She adds it to the pile beside her bed and reads over both files before sleeping each night.

She dreams of murder and bloody knives.

* * *

Joan's having dinner alone in her apartment the next time Moriarty calls. She doesn't want to know how Moriarty got the number.

"Joan, I can't help but notice you haven't accepted my dinner invite yet. Can I ask why?"

"Maybe it's because the last person who spent a lot of time with you in your prison cell was Agent Mattoo, whom you almost murdered."

" _Almost_ , Joan. That is the key word here."

Joan snorts. She feels like she's in some kind of sitcom.

"Come on, Joan. I've got nothing to do." Joan stops chewing for a moment, stares at the empty chairs next to her, at the case files littering the floor, and thinks. "They've taken away my paints," Moriarty complains. "All I have for company is the newspaper and Netflix."

_"They let you watch Netflix?"_

"Mm, you think that unfair. Well, you can talk to my guards about it if you'd like, when you come by."

* * *

She's in the brownstone, trying to work, but her skin is prickling. There's something bugging her in the back of her mind that won't let her focus. Everything is too tangled. She feels the urge to sweep all of her papers off the table onto the floor but resists. She turns around and glares at the bookcase.

There, on the top shelf. How had she only noticed this now? She climbs up the ladder and pulls out a heavy book with the title of "Migration Patterns of Northern Geese Species." The weight of the pages and whatever else is in there causes her to unintentionally slam the book onto the table. Inside the book, she finds that dozens of maps and diagrams have been interrupted by a compartment that houses a video camera.

Her first instinct is to be angry, but what's the point? Sherlock's been gone for three months now, and she has no idea if she'll even see him again ever.

She finds the recorded footage being stored on the desktop computer, and there's hours and hours of footage focused on the living room since nobody's been deleting any. She decides to look through some of it before she deletes it all. The beginning contains painful memories: being checked out by the doctor after her kidnapping, being informed by Mycroft that he hadn't trusted them to clear his name and that he had to go into hiding. She fast forwards through here, but then stops when the footage nears the time that Sherlock left for good.

She watches as Sherlock packs up a few of his things, then takes a book off the shelf and opens it. There's a secret compartment in the book, and out of it he pulls… is that…?

She's a former surgeon, godammit, and she really should better, but she swears her heart stops beating for a full five seconds here. She zooms in, and, yes, it's the heroin from one of the last cases they'd worked together.

She doesn't move, just stares at the computer screen and thinks of those groggy faces with dilated pupils that she'd shined a flashlight on all those weeks ago. Is she sure that none of those belonged to Sherlock? Completely sure?

The first thing she does is call Alfredo, and he tells her not to blame herself, but she doesn't think that's possible.

* * *

She solves another case.

* * *

When Agent Lorry lets her in, she is immediately startled by the eight-foot tall portrait of herself propped up against the wall. Jeez, she'd forgotten about that. Perhaps coming here wasn't such a good idea after all.

"I thought you said they took away your paints," Joan says dryly.

Moriarty looks up from her seat on the couch and grins, looking the same as ever. "Joan, you made it!" She walks to where Joan stands and strokes the painting on the cheek, causing Joan to shift uncomfortably. "Yes, they took away the paint jars because I used the glass in my previous escape attempt. But I insisted that I be allowed to keep my work, as there is no part of it that would assist me in escaping." Eyes glinting in the low light, Moriarty leans closer and lowers her voice. "As far as they know, at least," she whispers.

Joan turns back to her own likeness and stares, wondering what else could be hidden in the thick canvas and deep paint strokes, other than an unstable mass murderer's bizarre obsession.

"And what have you brought me?" Moriarty asks, gesturing down with a nod of her head to the files Joan is carrying by her side.

"They're some cold cases," she says, handing the files to Moriarty. They are not the familiar, hand-creased files that sit by her bedside and haunt her every night; they are copies. Yet it feels odd to hand them to Moriarty, almost as if she is handing over a piece of herself. "I thought you could give me a second opinion."

Moriarty takes the files and quickly flips through them, her expression appearing vaguely interested as she does so. "Ah, yes, I see," Moriarty hums, "your excuse."

"My what?"

Moriarty walks back toward the couch and puts down the files, and Joan follows her, haltingly and from a distance. Moriarty then begins setting the table.

"Your excuse for coming here," Moriarty explains brightly, while arranging two sets of plastic cups and silverware. "You need to tell people, to tell yourself, that you're only here because you want to get some cases solved. You won't admit that you've come because you want to see me. Because you're interested."

Joan doesn't react, just stares at Moriarty who then looks up. "… Good theory," she replies, after a moment. "Except for the fact that I'm not. Interested, I mean. I came here to ask you for a favor. Two favors, actually."

"You wound me, Joan," Moriarty says, good-naturedly and entirely unconvinced. "What else can I help you with?"

Joan walks over to the couch, sits down, and gazes at the concrete wall. She takes a deep breath, swallows, and forces the shame and guilt out of her voice before she answers, "I think Sherlock relapsed."

She hears a loud "tsk" come from over her shoulder, as if Joan had just informed Moriarty that there was a leak in her ceiling. "He really should be more careful. I'm not sure how much more strain his mind can take. One wrong move, and his genius could be impaired permanently."

"Yes, well, I'm significantly more worried about him," Joan snaps. She crosses her arms in annoyance.

"As am I," continues Moriarty, unfazed. "Your intelligence is part of what defines you, is it not? I am concerned for his intelligence, ergo I am concerned for him."

"No. Your intelligence doesn't define you. It's what you do with that intelligence that defines you."

"That's an interesting point of view," Moriarty replies noncommittally. "Care to elaborate?"

Joan remembers that his is Moriarty she's talking to, and that it's pointless to argue, especially about things like this. Still, she feels the urge to try. She wonders if Sherlock felt the same urge, the same frustration: that it should be so easy to just make Moriarty realize what she's missing, to make her _see_. Yet it isn't.

"No," Joan replies, and Moriarty sighs, a little disappointedly.

A guard enters the room, pushing in a cart loaded with food. Moriarty thanks him as he leaves, then continues setting the table. Joan stands up and walks toward the food, which somehow smells amazing, and her stomach grumbles. She had originally planned to skip out on dinner, not play into Moriarty's game, but the unfortunate truth is that she's starving, and the food looks, not only delicious, but three-star Michelin level delicious.

"So, that offer of yours, to help find Sherlock, is it still standing?" she manages, tearing her gaze away from the food.

Moriarty brushes her hands off and stands up. "Why, of course," she says to Joan. "You want him sent to your apartment? Or the brownstone?"

"No, not exactly. I mean, if you find him passed out on the street with a needle in his arm, then, yes, please bring him back. But I don't want to force him to do anything, so if he's more or less fine… just tell him I know he relapsed. And that I'm worried about him. Do you think you can do that?"

"It's done," Moriarty says simply.

Joan squints at the other woman and knows that she should probably thank her. "You just like showing off," she accuses, instead.

"So what if I do?" Moriarty says, eyes crinkling, her voice the tinkling of chimes. She sits down and motions for Joan to do the same. And then Joan gets an idea.

"You said you could escape using your painting. I assume you have other methods, too; what are they?" Joan asks, sitting down.

* * *

"Joan," Moriarty wails into the phone, "you tattled on me!"

Joan tucks the phone into the crook between her ear and her shoulder, then continues chopping her cucumbers. "Never said I wouldn't," she replies casually.

"They took my work, my sunglasses, my favorite nightgown, which was my favorite for reasons other than the fact that it allowed me to temporarily bypass motion sensors," Moriarty complains. "They secured the window bars, and they took my secret stash of knives and my other secret stash of knives. Good thing I didn't tell you about my other _other_ secret stash—

"Just because you didn't tell me about it doesn't mean that I didn't tell your guards about it."

Moriarty doesn't reply for a long time. Perhaps she's gone to stick her hand deep into a couch cushion to look for a package that she won't find. Or perhaps she knows better and hasn't bothered and instead just remains sitting, contemplating. In the silence, Joan allows herself a tiny smile.

"You know, Joan," Moriarty says, after a while, and Joan can hear the grin in her voice, "I adore a challenge."

"Mm-hmm," Joan hums dismissively. "So did you get a chance to look over those cases I brought you?"

"Yes," Moriarty sighs, as if this is some sort of chore she has to get through before she can start having fun. "I did."

* * *

She solves one of her cold cases.

* * *

"Thoughts?" Marcus asks.

Joan observes the dead body, bullet hole puncturing the forehead, reclining in the swivel chair behind the desk in this home office. She observes the blood spatter on the wall, the family pictures on the shelves, and the contents of the drawers. She observes what is there, and what isn't. And then she deduces.

"The shooter was female, five-foot seven, trained to use a gun, someone that the victim knew, and… worked closely with animals. Specifically… horses, it looks like. The victim and the murderer had a conversation before the crime took place. The victim's laptop and phone are missing, suggesting that this crime was motivated by business instead of passion… What?"

Marcus is squinting at her and biting his lip. "Nothing," he says, then grins. "It's just that… nothing."

"I know, I know," she sighs. She's thought the same thing several times over the past few months.

Marcus laughs and pats her warmly on the shoulder. "No, it's good. Seriously. You're doing good work." He bends his head closer to hers and lowers his voice. "And you didn't hear this from me, but I think the captain's trying to work something out for you. Like put you on retainer or something."

Her forehead creasing, Joan just stares at Marcus and feels the entire rest of the world fade away. She forgets about the dead body lying before her, about Sherlock, about her cold cases, about Moriarty, and anything else she has ever worried about ever.

 _"Really?"_ she asks.

"Yeah, really. You're brilliant, Joan. You're reliable. The captain has noticed." Joan, stunned into silence, doesn't respond, and Marcus continues, "We should celebrate. Let's go out for a drink tonight. My treat."

Joan manages to shake her head, then speak. "No, no, no, _my_ treat. We're celebrating for me, so I'll buy."

"No, Joan, that's not how it works…"

They jokingly argue about this for a couple minutes, before Marcus relents and says, "Fine, we'll each buy our own drinks. But we're toasting to you."

Joan grins. "Sounds good."

* * *

She solves another case.

* * *

Joan unlocks her apartment door and flicks on the light, gently pushing Emily ahead.

"Why don't you go lie down on the couch, Em?" Joan says, as she heads to the bathroom, but when she returns, she finds Emily sitting at the kitchen island, pouring herself yet another glass of wine. Joan rolls her eyes and snatches away the bottle, though she generously leaves the glass with Emily.

Emily swivels around on her stool, coming very close to spilling her drink. "I _love_ your apartment, Joanie," Emily slurs.

"Thanks, Em," Joan replies, pouring herself a glass of water. "I love it, too. So I'd appreciate it if you didn't vomit all over it."

"Ha. Hahaha." Emily doubles over laughing. "Let the record show that _I_ was the one cleaning up _your_ puke most of the time in college."

"I'll give you that one," Joan says fondly. "But let the record show that you are now forty years old. And that you drank so many beers that I lost count."

"Just because you have bad math skills doesn't mean that I'm going to blow chunks."

"God, Em," Joan moans, hiding a smile. She walks back toward the living room and begins making up the couch with pillows and blankets.

"Joan," Emily shouts from the kitchen, "I love this, you know? I _love_ that you hang out with us more now. It's great, really. I missed you. You don't understand how horrible it is to hang out with Ken and Hope alone. They're so coupley, it's disgusting."

Joan returns to the kitchen and takes Emily's arm, leading her slowly to the couch. "Yeah, I love it, too," she says quietly.

* * *

She can now feel a crisp chill in the air when she goes on her early morning runs. The leaves outside her bedroom window have changed from a dark green to a deep maroon. She investigates a murder in which the victim was clubbed over the head with a pumpkin. She solves it, of course.

Time has passed. What she used to consider an interim has now simply become normal. The gaping person-shaped vacuum that used to follow her to crime scenes has faded. Perhaps, it is a bit lonely to be a team of just one consulting detective, but she is no longer, you see, a one out of two, and that is what makes all the difference.

* * *

She wakes up early, the details of the case she's investigating still running through her mind. She picks up her theorizing from where she left off last night, and she's so engrossed in thought that she doesn't realize until she gets to the bathroom and the toothbrush is in her mouth. Before she can get to her molars, she freezes, and her eyes widen. Then, she throws the toothbrush into the sink, wipes her mouth off with the back of her hand, and walks back into the hallway.

There's something lying on the ground, right outside her bedroom door. Her heart starts pounding as she bends down to pick up a photo that depicts two glowing, white orbs, floating in an inky blackness perforated by tiny spots of light. _Stars_ , she thinks reflexively in the back of her mind. In the front of her mind, she thinks of dozens of early mornings that started this same way, only sometimes with a tortoise involved.

No, she can't help it, and she runs down the hallway to the kitchen. And sitting on one of her stools, snacking on one of her bananas… is Sherlock. His hair is longer than it was when she'd seen him last. It flops over on itself, covering his ears and parts of his forehead. His face looks more tired, more wrinkled, but it lights up when he sees her.

She thinks she should hug him, and then she thinks she should punch him, and the two emotions kind of cancel each other out, leaving her just standing there, staring.

Eyes wide, Sherlock puts down his banana peel and stands up. "Watson! I… I…" He fades into silence, seemingly lost for words, which Joan finds a miracle in and of itself.

"Where the hell have you been?" she asks finally, arms crossed. She's only wearing boxer shorts and an old t-shirt, but she knows she cuts an intimidating figure.

"France," Sherlock says. "Working with MI6."

 _"Why?"_ she practically shouts, breathless.

Stalling, Sherlock throws his banana peel into the trash before starting. "After our encounter with MI6, they offered me a job. And I… was not in a good place." He looks down and wrings his hands. "You and I hadn't been getting along at the time, if you'll recall. Even before Mycroft had reared his ugly head. I feared that our partnership was coming to an end. Upon reflection, of course, I have realized that I was misinterpreting your desire to move, but at the time, I was… muddled. So I accepted the offer. I've been infiltrating a French mob ever since."

"And you couldn't call home? Leave a note?" Joan waves her hands in a rage. "I had no idea where you were, if you were even alive!"

Sherlock looks back up at her, and his eyes are soft. "I know. I will eternally owe you apologies for that. I always meant to call you, but I suppose I was ashamed… of how we left things and also of my relapse, though I am clean now, by the way. And as the days passed, it became harder and harder to pick up the phone."

"And now you're back because, what? MI6 told you they needed some space, and then you freaked out and ran away?" It's not even that witty, but she's overflowing with frustration, she needs to let it out somehow.

"I received your message from Moriarty. It was a wake up call, of sorts. I realized that I had to do something before I lost your partnership forever. If I haven't already. Hence, I withdrew from MI6 and promptly flew back to New York." He takes a hesitant step toward her, and she glares at him, causing him to step back. He adds, a grimace on his face, "Also, the French are a repulsive people, and I could no longer stand to be in their presence without you."

She starts pacing, back and forth between the kitchen and the living room. What is she supposed to do? She's angry, frustrated, annoyed, and, all mixed up in there, she's relieved, too. What are they now? Partners? He'd thrown that all away. But she could let him back in, if she wanted. It could all go back to the way it was, but, wait, that isn't what she wants, remember?— God, she's confused.

"… I am sorry, Watson," Sherlock says, then covers his face with his hands, as if he knows that the words will never be enough. "I am sorry for all the worry I caused you and for not being as mature a partner as you deserve and for abandoning you to be a detective on your own with no warning."

She thinks about her mother, about the monthly check she now receives from the NYPD, and figures maybe she doesn't have to be mad about that last one. She'd wanted space from Sherlock, and he'd given her much more than she'd asked for, but, in the end, she'd become a capable detective in her own right. Who knows if she'd ever manage that had Sherlock never left? She never would have developed this breezy confidence, this relentless independence. The realization doesn't temper her anger, though. There's still a lot else to be angry about.

In her lack of response, Sherlock continues feebly, "In good news, MI6 paid me enough money such that I no longer must rely on my father financially."

"Congratulations on finally joining the rest of adult society at age forty," she snaps. She knows that accomplishments need to be measured in how much they are valued personally rather than how much they are valued universally, but at this point, she doesn't care. Sometimes measuring accomplishments on the Sherlock Holmes scale of general incompetence gets a little trying.

Sherlock falls silent now, waiting for her. There's a photo in her hand, she remembers. She'd forgotten about it in her fury. She holds it out to Sherlock. "What's this?" she demands.

"That photograph depicts Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky."

She glances at the two spheres. "Which one is it?"

"Both, in fact. They compose a binary star system." He smiles at her weakly, hopefully. "They orbit each other."

As she stares at him and his slumped shoulders, she can feel the rage leaking out of herself, as hard as she tries to keep it penned in.

"I do listen to you," he says, sincerity leaking out of every orifice. "I know you think I don't, but I do. You're very important to me."

She sighs.

"Watson," Sherlock tries, and Joan thinks, _No one's called me that for a long time_.

"I did just fine without you," she says forcefully.

Sherlock grins, eyes excited. "You don't have to lie to me, Watson. I've been keeping tabs on you. You've done more than fine. Marvelously. First-rate." His face then falls. "So I would understand if you no longer wish to work with me. You've clearly shown that you're more than proficient at being a detective on your own. There's nothing left for me to teach you."

She stares out the window at the soft orange light of sunrise. She couldn't do that in the brownstone; the surrounding buildings were too tall and blocked out the view.

The past few months have taught her that she definitely could work solo, if she wanted. But they have also taught her about how much harsher failure is when there's no one to prop you back up again, how much harder all-nighters are when there's no one to stay up with you. And just because you can do something, doesn't mean you should, and the truth is—"Some things work better in pairs," she says slowly. "Parenting, owning a business… detecting."

"Drawing upon my own personal experience, I would agree wholeheartedly."

She glances down and plays with the hem of her shirt. "Besides, there may be a few things left that you can still help me with." She thinks of the stack of files by her bed, the ones that she tries every night to stash away and forget about, but can never manage to. "How to move on, for example."

She looks at Sherlock, and his face is full of sympathy, and it's clear that he understands what she means immediately, no explanation required. And she's missed that: having someone who gets it. Try as they might, her friends would never be able to. Bell could almost, but not quite. And maybe that was the elusive reason why she'd gone to Moriarty, though Moriarty only understood in one capacity and not in the other.

"These past few months have not been easy on you, have they Watson?"

She shakes her head, and he sighs, probably feeling guilty. He walks over to her and takes her hand, holding it tightly.

"I am sorry for that, Watson, I really am. And I promise to you that the future will be better. I told you before I left that I would change. That still holds true. I _will_ change. I will _be better_. And you will no longer have to carry the world on your shoulders. And together we will be _sensational_ , I promise you."

Joan Watson and Sherlock Holmes. She's seen what they can do together: locate a stolen painting that's been lost for decades, befriend a dangerous and powerful hacker collective, and take down the Napoleon of crime. And standing here, looking at Sherlock, she knows that's only the beginning. Now that they've been reunited, who knows what they can accomplish? And maybe, one day, she'll look up at the night sky, at those two bright stars orbiting each other, and they will really have earned the right to call them their own.

"This doesn't mean I've forgiven you," she warns.

Sherlock nods with fervor. "Naturally."

"This just means I need a partner, and there aren't a whole lot of people in New York who are qualified." She smiles faintly. "Lucky you."

"Yes, lucky me," Sherlock agrees.


End file.
